


Joke and Dagger

by KillClaudio



Category: Marvel
Genre: (the least soulmate-y Soulmate AU ever), Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Idiots in Love, M/M, Made For Each Other, Marvel 616/MCU Crossover, POV Alternating, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26165848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KillClaudio/pseuds/KillClaudio
Summary: Clint Barton never signed up for Soulmate Matching. At first he was ashamed, not wanting to meet his soulmate as a criminal on the run. He joined S.H.I.E.L.D. so he could offer his soulmate a better life, but in the process he fell in love. How can he ask to be Matched now, when his dreams are filled with kind blue eyes and a steady voice in his ear?Phil Coulson registered for Soulmate Matching a decade ago, without result. At this point he can only imagine that his soulmate took one look at Phil's file and ran in the opposite direction. And who would want an aging, balding, boring guy whose file says 'civil servant'?
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Comments: 42
Kudos: 285
Collections: The Best Fics I've Read, WIP Big Bang 2020





	Joke and Dagger

There are a lot of reasons people don't want to be Matched. Some people aren't ready to settle down. Some people want to make the choice for themselves. Some people aren't interested in the level of commitment a soulmate requires. Some people don't even have a mark. And some people think the whole thing is a government conspiracy to distract us from the _real_ threat posed by alien space lizards. 

But Clint? It was Clint's traitorous heart that got him every time.

The thing was, Clint had spent most of his twenties as a criminal on the run. After the Swordsman there was Trick Shot, and after Trick Shot he went freelance for a while, and then there was a whole mess of stuff with his brother that he didn't really want to think about, and then he met Natasha. He and Nat did what they had to do to survive, and mostly that didn't involve killing anyone, but it did involve stealing a bunch of stuff that wasn't theirs and a lot of close calls with the law. Point is—well, the point is, Clint was ashamed. 

He didn't want his soulmate to see him like that. He didn't want to meet them for the first time as a criminal and a deadbeat who had fucked up his life. From the very first time Clint had run his fingers across the black lines on his wrist, he'd had a really clear idea of the kind of person his soulmate would be. A hero. Someone with kind hands and gentle eyes, but also a badass who saved lives and defeated bad guys and rescued kittens from trees. 

Go ahead and laugh. Natasha had, plenty of times.

That was why Clint and Natasha came in from the cold and signed with S.H.I.E.L.D.; so Clint could clean up his act, sign up with a Matching Service, and win the guy or gal of his dreams. He'd become a proper law-abiding citizen, with an apartment and a dog and everything. Ready to impress the hell out of his soulmate.

When did anything in Clint's life ever go to plan? Instead, he fell in love. Clint's fantasies couldn't have come to life in more vivid detail if Phil Coulson had stepped right out of his dreams.

There was one obvious solution, of course. Clint might meet his soulmate and discover it was exactly the person he was hoping it would be. But with Clint's luck, was that ever going to happen? Clint had always though of himself as a lucky guy. You didn't get in as many fights as he did, and fall of as many things as he had, and come out mostly in one piece, without a hell of a lot of luck. But that luck had never extended to his love life.

Clint dropped his head back against the sofa and sighed. Lucky looked up at the noise, then padded over and stuck a sympathetic nose in Clint's ear.

"You've got to ask yourself, do I feel Lucky? Well, do you, pup?"

Lucky licked his fingers, oblivious to Clint's awesome Dirty Harry impression.

"Good boy," Clint told him warmly, and scratched behind his ears. "I don't know, Lucky. With my track record, I'm not gonna hold my breath."

Clint pulled off his wrist cuff and stared at the symbol that decorated his wrist. Each soulmark was unique; except that somewhere out there, his soulmate was wearing its exact match. That was the point of Matching. Your soulmark was photographed and compared to a database of millions of others, the computer pulled up close matches to be checked by a human, and boom, bang, bing, you met your soulmate. No need to rely on coincidence, luck, or other messy real-life stuff.

The perfect circle that decorated Clint's wrist was crossed with two diagonal lines, in shades of black and gray like a partly faded tattoo. One line had a V-shape at its tip and little flicks of fletching coming from the bottom – clearly an arrow. The other line was plain except for a sharp diagonal at the tip, like a pocket knife or a switchblade. Each half represented one of the two people in the soulbound. 

So Clint was an arrow, right? Except that would be too easy. Because the black side, the side that represented him, was the knife or dagger or whatever, and the faded side that showed he hadn't met his soulmate yet was an arrow. Clint had no idea what to do with that.

As a kid, he'd lain in bed at night and run his fingers over the arrow, trying to imagine the kind of person his soulmate might be. When the Swordsman had first given Clint a bow he'd been overjoyed – the best thing to happen to him in his short life. This must be how he would meet his soulmate. She'd be a fellow archer, tall and graceful with long hair streaking out behind her as she drew, or a modern-day Robin Hood who took out bad guys with his badass bow. In Clint's fantasies they met when he pulled off an incredible shot, leaping from the side of a building or splitting their arrow in two. 

Those fantasies seemed sour now. He didn't want that any more. Not since Phil. 

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair to his soulmate to meet them and start a relationship when he was already in love with someone else, and it wasn't fair to Phil to ask him out when Clint had a soulmate, and it wasn't fair to Clint to be stuck in this trap. But who said life was fair?

* * *

Coulson's briefing started at the totally reasonable hour of 11am, because Coulson was awesome that way. Clint helped himself to coffee and topped up everyone else's mugs while files were handed around.

"You all remember those arms dealers we were tracking last year?" Coulson asked, clicking on the projector. He looked as though he'd recently gotten a haircut, the lines of his hairline razor-sharp, and it made the back of his neck look strangely vulnerable. It also made Clint want to lick him. 

"Surveillance and Data Analysis have finally run them to ground. They're camped out in a couple of defunct military bases in the Nevada desert. That's a pretty big cache of weapons they're sitting on, and they're trying to sell them to some very unpleasant people."

"How is this S.H.I.E.L.D.'s problem?" Natasha asked. "The FBI can't deal with a few gun runners, now?"

"Most of the weapons have been fused with various bits of alien technology. Because weapons manufacturers using alien technology they don't understand always goes well."

"How the hell did they get their hands on it?" Clint asked.

"Good question. Why don't we go ask them?"

"Hang on, I know this guy." Bobbi pulled a photograph out of her file. "He's a small-time mercenary turned assassin…Hansen? He took a shot at Barton last year. It was embarrassing—mostly for Hansen."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "The only thing that's embarrassing is how slow Clint is to duck."

"Hey," Clint protested, "he missed, didn't he?"

"Yeah, he's not the sharpest knife in the drawer," Coulson said. "But it's never a good idea to underestimate them."

May was flicking through the blueprints in her folder with a frown. "These are old SSR bases. They used to be used for deep space telemetry."

"Yeah, I noticed that."

"And _this_ is where they're storing the weapons?"

"Split across two locations." Coulson flicked to the next slide, a satellite view of each base. "The satellite base is guarded, but not too heavily. The problem is the other one—intel says there's some kind of self-destruct mechanism on the main base, and if it's triggered it will blow everything to kingdom come."

"With them inside?" May asked. "We should blow it."

Coulson shrugged. "Secret exit, getaway vehicle, who knows? Besides, I'd like them to stay alive long enough answer a few questions."

"And I don't suppose we know where this self-destruct mechanism is located?"

"If they told us that, Agent Romanov, where would be the fun?"

The plan they put together was simple and efficient, the kind Coulson excelled at. They would hit the smaller base first; Clint and Natasha would go in from above and take out the guards while Coulson, May and Bobbi took a team and cleared the outer corridors. Once everyone was either dead, knocked out or corralled in the main central chamber they'd be able to come at them from all sides. Come in fast and hit them hard.

"Non-lethal force, if possible," Coulson said. "I want at least some of them lucid enough to interrogate. Grab Hansen if you can."

"Copy that, sir."

"There's a complication," Coulson added. Everyone looked up at him. "They've hired a bunch of local guys as manual labor. Couple of factories have closed down recently so there were plenty of volunteers. These guys don't know what they're shifting—or at least, they think it's legit."

"You want us to keep the civilian casualties to a minimum, sir?" Bobbi asked.

"I want you to keep the civilian casualties to zero, Agent Morse. These guys are just trying to feed their families. They don't know who they're working for."

"Zero? Are you serious?"

"Come on, Bobbi, how long have we worked together? In and out, minimal destruction, minimal loss of life. That's how we always do this."

May's frown deepened. "That's going to be tough, with civilians getting in the way."

"I have faith in you all."

There was a chorus of agreement as everyone shuffled papers away and got to their feet.

"Jet leaves first thing in the morning. There's a deal planned for next week, and I don't want it to go through." There was only the faintest gleam in Coulson's eyes to give him away as he said, "Let's see if we can _spike their guns_."

Everyone around the table groaned silently, Coulson suppressed a smile, and Clint fell a little more in love with him.

* * *

Phil took a deep breath, braced himself, and opened his inbox.

Nothing. He breathed out slowly and sat back in his chair. That tight feeling in his chest ought to be disappointment, but if he was honest with himself it felt a lot more like relief.

Phil had waited until he was out of the Rangers to sign up for Soulmate Matching. He'd seen the stress that military spouses went through, waiting for news, and it seemed kinder to his soulmate to let them skip that part. So by the time he signed up at the age of twenty-nine, he figured his soulmate would already be in the database. But his match came back negative. 

At the time it was no big deal. His soulmate was probably career-oriented, had their own stuff they needed to take care of. Maybe a little younger than him, still establishing themselves in their position. Besides, SHIELD took up practically his every waking moment, and he loved the work, loved the sense of purpose it gave him, the satisfaction of making the world, piece by piece, a better place. Next year, he told himself. Next year his match would ome up.

But they never did, and the years became a decade, until Phil found himself forty-two years old, single, with a string of pleasant but unmemorable affairs behind him and a soulmate who had apparently gone AWOL. And who could blame them if they took one look at Phil, scrubbed themselves from the database and ran away? Who would want an aging, balding, boring guy whose file says 'civil servant'?

Phil couldn't pretend he didn't feel some regret about that, but more recently that regret had become tempered. Because ever since he'd met Clint Barton, he'd started to have conflicted feelings about this whole soulmate thing. 

He'd gained a reputation in the rangers as a guys whose ops were pulled off with minimal fuss, who could get in and out without being noticed, who caused as little damage as possible and kept civilian casualties to a minimum. The kind of guy who'd rather use a scalpel than a shotgun. It had become a running gag, and Phil had found it mildly amusing too, until the day Fury walked into his office with a file and said, "Coulson, I've found your scalpel."

The file was on one Clinton Francis Barton, marksman extraordinaire, and Phil had never been the same again. 

Clint was incredible. Beneath the jokey exterior he was one of the most brilliant men Phil had ever met, with a gift for strategy and tactics as much as for marksmanship and long-range weapons. Over and over again Phil saw him running laps in the rain, or sweating in the gym, and always, always on the range, practicing tirelessly. Everything he could do, he'd earned through hard work and brutal training. He only made it _look_ like magic.

On the job, he was perfect. Off the job, he was a walking bundle of chaos and bad decisions, the kind of guy who not only attracted trouble but launched himself right at it to protect any innocent bystanders. He'd rescued a stray dog from the mob, for god's sake. He was sweet, he was funny, and his puns were almost as bad as Phil's. And he was gorgeous. The junior agents had clearly noticed, because Clint couldn't walk down a corridor at SHIELD without at least one pair of covetous eyes following him. Phil's eyes, more often than not. 

If only the arrow that decorated Phil's wrist was his soulmate's mark instead of his own. But the arrow was dark ink, mocking him every day. It had to mean _something_ , didn't it? If Phil was an arrow and Clint was an archer?

* * *

Simple. Clint had made the mistake of thinking the word 'simple', hadn't he? Didn't even have to say it out loud any more. Thinking it was enough. 

Clint and Natasha had gone in via the roof and taken out Hansen's sentries with minimum fuss, apart from a few over-enthusiastic punches on Natasha's part.

"Jeez, Nat, at least let the guy keep a few teeth."

"So he can turn around and bite me later?" Natasha smacked him on the shoulder. "Help me tie them up."

By the time they had twelve unconscious toughs in a pile on the floor, Coulson, May and Bobbi had cleared the outer corridors. Coulson had done the 'I-represent-the-Strategic-Homeland-blah-blah' spiel to the civilian contractors, who had all looked suitably impressed and terrified. Then they'd blown the doors of the central chamber, and the fight really got going.

Clint loved watching Phil fight. He worked with the clean efficiency of a soldier, disabling his opponent with a swift blow or a bullet before they got a chance to turn around. Minimum risk, maximum impact. If Coulson wanted you dead, you were dead before you even saw him coming. It was beautiful.

Not so beautiful that Clint could afford to be distracted from his own fight. As soon as they'd spotted him and Natasha, five or ten minions had peeled off and started running up the stairs. Natasha shrugged and dropped down onto ground level, shooting people as she flipped. Clint held his ground as long as possible, managing to get some good shots in before he had to beat off the ones coming up to him. 

On the ground floor, Bobbi was wielding her staves with balletic grace, while May took out thugs left and right with brutal competence. They'd cleared half the room, and some of the back-up team had stopped shooting in favor of making with the zip ties. Coulson neatly took out the guy trying to fight him with a hard whack to the temple, and headed for the man yelling orders in the middle of the room.

Clint fired off a couple more arrows to help clear his way, then had to turn to fight hand-to-hand with another guy who'd just climbed the stairs towards him. "You guys really think fighting me one at a time is a good idea?" Clint asked as he knocked him out with a kick. "You never seen a movie or something?"

The thud of something heavy being knocked across the room came through the comms, and then the sound of unpleasant laughter. Coulson had been knocked back to the ground, his weapon gone. He was clutching at his right ankle as though he'd twisted it going down. One of the dealers was standing over him. 

"You think SHIELD can just waltz in and take what they want? You think you can tell us what to do?"

Coulson gestured around him. "Looks like we're doing a pretty good job so far."

Shit, shit, shit. Clint twisted sideways and drew, but the guy he'd been fighting got up in time to knock him sideways and his arrow flew harmlessly away. He jabbed him in the stomach with his bow and drew another arrow, but it was knocked out of his hand before he could even start.

"You've interfered in our business for too long," the guy was saying, towering over Coulson. "Think you can come in here and throw your weight around, tell us what to do. Well I'm going to show you—"

Clint flipped his attacker over his shoulder and knocked him out with a blow to the head, then spun on his heel and drew, aimed—

Just in time to see Coulson shoot him with the back up gun in his ankle holster.

"They always have to gloat," Coulson said as he picked himself up.

"That's a guy who's seen too many Bond movies," Clint agreed. He leaned over the balcony to get a look at the carnage below, and the floor gave out underneath him.

Clint had fallen off a lot of stuff. By now you could almost call it his superpower. He twisted in mid-air, grabbing for the edge of the balcony below, and nearly—aw, damn—so close—

Instead Clint caught himself on the rusted metal pole sticking out below him, and managed to scrape his arm bloody on the sharp nails sticking out and get two embedded in his wrist cuff. Hell. He shifted his weight to his right hand, swinging back and forth as he tried to tug his left wrist away, but it was really stuck on there. 

Clint yanked harder, trying to get free, and then his sweaty palm slipped on the pole, there was a loud ripping sound, and Clint, minus his wrist cuff, was dropping the final ten feet and the stack of wooden boxes beneath him broke his fall and collapsed in a cloud of dust.

* * *

Phil reached the pile of broken boxes first, and leaned carefully over the edge. "Clint? Are you okay?"

"Probably?" Clint cautiously raised his head, then sat up. "No bones broken, but I think I have a splinter in my ass. Ow."

"I didn't know this place was so fragile. Here, let me help you up." He held out a hand to grab Clint—and spotted his bare wrist. 

He whirled around before he could accidentally see anything he wasn't supposed to. Just that little glimpse of Clint's wrist was enough. Phil unpicked the knot of his tie and held it out without turning around. "Here. That will cover it until—tie it around your wrist."

Clint emerged a few seconds later looking mostly decent, his wrist covered by Phil's tie wound several times around and clumsily tied. 

The rest of the team still had their weapons trained on the prisoners, but they all looked concerned. "Clint?" Natasha asked.

"I'm good." Clint grinned. "You know me, take a licking and keeps on ticking."

Phil looked around at the carnage they'd left, the men in various states of consciousness lying around the floor. "Okay," he said, "let's see what we can get out of these guys. Morse, Romanov, I want you to—"

"I'm thinking that one." Bobbi pointed at a guy whose eyes were flicking rapidly around the warehouse. "He'll break first."

Natasha hummed. "I agree he's the weakest. But we should start with that one." She indicated the youngest man sitting at the back. 

"Oh, a scapegoat. I like the way you think." Bobbi winked at her. "Okay, let's split them up." 

"—interrogate the prisoners," Phil finished with a wry look. "Agent May—"

"I'm going to check the perimeter," May said, and stalked off. 

"Do I need a badge that says 'in charge'?"

"'Cat-Herder-in-Chief," Clint suggested. He pushed himself to his feet, fingers still clutched around his left wrist. 

"Come on. Let me look at that arm."

Phil grabbed the field medic kit and sat Clint on an upturned box so he could inspect the cut that ran the length of his inner forearm, speckled with rust and grime. 

"I hope you're up-to-date on your tetanus shots, Agent."

"Pfft. You think Medical would let me forget something like that?"

"Good." Phil gently wiped at Clint's arm with a wet cloth, careful not to catch at anything sensitive. Blood and dirt had seeped down to his wrist and under the edge of Phil's tie, soaking the fabric. "We're going to have to…"

Clint nodded. He took a deep breath, and started unwrapping the tie. 

Everyone wore wrist guards—if you didn't you were asking to be scammed—but for SHIELD agents if was considered especially dangerous to reveal yourself. At any time an agent could be under observation, and all it took was one photograph with a long-range telescope and your Mark was sold to the highest-bidding criminal organization. But it was private, too; a thing you were saving for your soulmate, the first time someone saw it who wasn't a medical professional, the first time someone touched you where they'd left their Mark on you.

Phil flicked his eyes towards the ceiling, trying to steady his breathing. _Don't look, don't look, don't look._ What he wouldn't give, to see the mark hidden under that scrap of cloth. If he knew, once and for all, that Clint would never be his, he might be able to stop this constant yearning, the aching need to touch Clint and pull him in and keep him. 

"Okay," Clint said quietly, and Phil handed him the antiseptic wipe, still keeping his eyes carefully averted as Clint wiped himself down and wrapped the tie back around his wrist.

Clint's laugh was shaky as he said, "R and D swore that the only way this would come off is if someone took off my arm."

"Well, then, I'm glad they were wrong." Phil got out a q-tip and the antiseptic cream and dabbed it where it was needed, which luckily didn't include underneath the tie. It was shockingly intimate, seeing his tie wrapped around Clint's wrist—like wearing each other's clothes, or moving around each other to shave in the morning. He couldn't stop looking at it. "Did you bring a spare?"

"Nah, but I've got a wrist guard that's comfortable enough to wear all day. It'll keep everything covered."

Thank god. Phil couldn't handle any more flashes of bare skin. It was bad enough walking around trying not to look at Clint's biceps and Clint's chest and Clint's ass. 

"You never talk about it," Clint said abruptly. He nodded at Phil's wrist, where the wide leather cuff hid his mark. 

Phil shrugged. "What's to talk about? I haven't been Matched, yet. Still waiting for them to show up." He hesitated, trying not to look at his tie wrapped around Clint's wrist. "You don't talk about yours, either. Are you…?"

"Uh, me too. Still waiting."

Bobbi popped her head around the door, looking pleased with herself. "They need a few hours to stew before we get anything. And May says she's hungry. Dinner?"

"Day is saved, everyone is alive…" Clint grinned. "Let's get pizza."

* * *

Clint took the first shower, so he could wash off the blood. Coulson stayed to supervise the clean up crew as they packed up the weapons for the drive to the excited scientists at HQ. He was back in their room by the time Clint got out, stripping off his dusty jacket. 

"Pizza place was shut," Coulson said, dumping a handful of white containers on the table. "You're going to have to be happy with Chinese.

"No problem." Clint had washed the tie well enough to get the dirt off, but some of the blood stains were probably permanent. "Sorry," he said, holding it up. "Think your tie's a goner." 

"Don't worry about it. I never liked that one anyway." Coulson toed out of his shoes. "Gonna hit the shower."

Clint grabbed the twin bed nearest the door and flicked on the TV, but he couldn't settle. Even _British Bake Off_ couldn't distract him from the thought of Coulson ten feet away, naked and wet, with his head tilted back under the spray and water dripping down his neck, his chest, his bare wrists—

Clint got up abruptly and grabbed his wallet and his keycard, then spent a cold twenty minutes wandering the streets, trying to calm his libido by thinking about anything else. To kill some time, he detoured into the only grocery store still open, and ended up picking up snacks and scotch and then stopping on the way back to share the booty with Nat, Bobbi and May. 

When he got back to the room, the door to the bathroom edged open slightly, but no one came out. "Just me," Clint called, before Coulson could shoot him.

Coulson's head emerged from the bathroom, followed by the rest of him. Clint's eyes skittered away, but not before they took in flushed pink cheeks and damp hair sticking up, a muscular chest dusted with hair and broad shoulders with dimples that Clint wanted to run his tongue over.

"Hey," Coulson said. "Where d'you go?"

Clint pulled the bottle of scotch from his jacket. "Needed a drink. You want one?"

"Sure. I'll be right out."

Coulson emerged a minute later in a pair of sweats and a washed-out SHIELD-issue t-shirt of paper-thin cotton. It looked soft and snuggleable and did incredible things for his biceps. Clint focused on pouring scotch into the tumblers from the bathroom, giving them both a hefty measure. He needed it.

They drank scotch and ate Chinese food and red vines while they watched the end of _British Bake Off_ , then part of a wrestling match, then Clint channel surfed mindlessly for a couple of minutes before Coulson pulled open a drawer in the nightstand and said, "Hey, they have cards."

They played gin rummy, because Coulson was a nerd. Coulson cheated, because he was an _asshole_. 

"How are you doing that without sleeves?" Clint asked.

"I don't know what you mean," Coulson said blandly, and pulled out a fifth ace. 

"Okay, give me those." Clint grabbed the cards. "We're playing poker."

Coulson's poker face was much better than Clint's, but Clint had a decade of practice at reading him, and a few card-sharp tricks of his own. After an hour of play, the two piles of candy they were using as chips were mostly even.

"They teach sleight of hand at the Academy?"

Coulson smiled. "If you go to the right Academy."

"You couldn't have used it to get us out of trouble in that gambling den we raided?"

"Nobody forced you to climb up on stage to, and I quote, 'shake daddy's little money maker'."

"Hey, it let me pick the mark's pocket, didn't it? Besides, you wouldn't have wanted to ask Nat to do it."

"Of course not. I needed Natasha to steal the surveillance footage."

"Aw, no, really?" Clint eyed him. "No, that's a joke, right? You wouldn't do that to me."

"I guess you'll find out next time the dog eats your paperwork."

Clint snorted and ducked his head. It was too much, to look straight at Coulson while he was sitting like this, soft and vulnerable in a t-shirt and sweats, and smiling right at him. 

This was what Phil Coulson's soulmate had waiting for them, whenever they bothered to show up. This was how Phil treated his dates – with kindness, and consideration, and bashful, sexy little smiles, and probably sexy little kisses, followed by soft lingering ones, followed by pressing them back against the bed…

"Bed," Coulson said, putting away the cards. "We have people to shoot in the morning."

Coulson fell asleep almost immediately, but Clint lay awake a while, staring into the dark. In the faint streetlights coming around the curtains he could just make out Coulson's face; the surprisingly long sweep of his eyelashes against his cheeks, his lips pushed out in a pout as he snored gently. 

Clint had tried, more than once, to forget his crush on Coulson in someone else's bed. It never worked. No matter how hard he tried to focus on his partner, his imagination would take over, whispering about what it would be like to have Coulson's lips against his neck, Coulson's chest under his fingertips, and Clint had to bite his lip to keep from saying his name aloud. 

_Phil_ , he tried, in the silence of his head, as though he'd ever be allowed to actually say it.

The worst of it was, Clint had seen Coulson's eyes lingering once too often on his ass. If one day he bent over a little too obviously, let his eyes linger a little too long, Coulson would get the message. Clint could be spending overnights in the field sharing a bed with him instead of a room, could have some of those lingering kisses, could have Coulson warm and willing in his arms. Hell, if he went and crawl into Coulson's bed right now, there was a good chance he'd be welcome. The thought made him ache with desire.

And through it all, Coulson would keep his wrist cuff on and his guard up. And then one day he would Match, and it would be abruptly over. Clint was never going to get the thing he really wanted.

* * *

Phil was barely dressed when Natasha knocked on the door the next morning. That's what he got for giving in to the temptation to stay up late with Clint, drinking and playing cards. It was so rare he got Clint all to himself, and he'd wanted to enjoy it for as long as he could. And then he hadn't been able to sleep, lying in the dark listening to the sound of Clint's even breathing. 

He was still knotting his tie as he opened the door. Natasha raised her eyebrows at him, but all she said was "Got the intel."

They gathered in a quiet diner on the edge of town, and ate bacon and waffles while Natasha and Bobbi laid out the new information.

"The self-destruct mechanism is in the basement," Natasha said. "And you were right, there's an escape tunnel that leads out to the road. Whoever pushes the button can get out that way before anything blows."

"Leaving the poor bastards inside to get blown up?" Clint asked. 

"I don't think Hansen and Fischer are the kind of guys who care about that."

"Wait, did you say Fischer?" Phil asked. "Glenn Fischer? That's who Hansen's using as his deputy? Don't they hate each other?"

"Yeah, they did some job together in Tashkent that went wrong. Blamed each other."

"Why the hell are they working together then?"

"Money."

"Be pretty easy to drive a wedge between them," Melinda said. "Use that as a distraction."

Bobbi nodded. "Hansen is really paranoid about loyalty. It wouldn't be hard to convince him that one of his men was betraying him."

"If one of us were to 'accidentally' get caught, we could let it slip," Natasha suggested. "But we'd need someone who could look convincingly stupid." 

Everyone looked at Clint.

"Sure." Clint shoved another forkful of pancakes in his mouth. "'S nuh puhblm."

It was a problem for Phil. "I don't like it. If something happens, we won't be able to get to you fast enough."

"You think I can't hold my own?"

"Unarmed, against fifty guys with guns? I don't like your chances."

Clint waggled his fork. "Never tell me the odds."

"Sir," Bobbi put in, "keeping Hansen and Fischer busy is our best chance at getting in there. And Hansen really hates Clint—"

"That's _why_ I'm not comfortable with it."

"–and after that embarrassment last year, he won't be able to resist showing off. That should buy us some time."

Phil sighed. "Fine. Barton will go in and distract them. Romanov, I want you to slip down to the basement and disable the self-destruct system. I'll put a couple of guys on the tunnel to grab anyone who comes out. May, Morse and I will each take a team and come in via the main entrance. Once everything kicks off, we'll need snipers. May, did you bring your M110?"

"Never leave home without it."

"Then I want you and Hawkeye to take the north-east and south-west corners of the roof and cover the gates at the edge of the compound. If they're civilian contractors, just let them go—the local cops will round them up later. But don't let a single weapon leave the base, you got it?"

There was a chorus of 'yes sir'.

"Okay. Get to work."

While everyone else finished gearing up, Phil walked towards to outer perimeter with Clint, stopping just out of sight of the cameras. He handed over the pistol Clint would carry. "They'll be suspicious if you're not carrying. May will bring your bow." He couldn't help the flick of his eyes down to Clint's wrist, where the wrist guard was now covering his Mark. There was the slightest hint of blue and gray fabric poking out underneath. "Is that my tie?"

Clint looked shifty. "Wrist guard's too big otherwise. It's designed to go over the cuff. I needed something to cushion it."

"It's going to slip if you're not careful." Phil felt in his pockets for something he could use, then remembered his tie pin. "Here." He took it off and used it to clip the edge of the tie safely to the bottom of the guard, holding it in place.

"Thanks." The look he got in return was so warm that Phil could barely meet Clint's eyes.

It was still Phil's privilege to take care of Clint, for as long as it was necessary. "Be careful," he said, and then with an abrupt nod he turned and headed back towards the rest of the team.

* * *

Clint waited until Coulson had gone back the way he came before he stumbled towards the gate, trying to look like a driver who'd gotten lost.

"Hey, guys. Any chance I could use your bathroom?"

One of the guards scowled. "Go to hell." 

That was original. Clint wasn't going to get any good banter out of this one. "Come on, fellas. Guy's gotta pee." Clint made sure to keep his face tilted up towards the security camera. _Come on, Hansen, look at me, look at me…_

"Does this look like a public bathroom? Get out of here."

Before Clint had to make up another stupid excuse, the guy put a hand up to his ear. Amateur. 

"Sir? Yes, sir. Right away, sir." He gave Clint a nasty smile and opened the gate. "Boss says to come right in."

They stripped him of his weapons and his comm link, then dragged him into the central chamber, where Hansen was practically rubbing his hands together in glee. "Well if it isn't the Amazing Hawkeye. Not so smart now, are you?" He backhanded Clint hard across the face, sending him sprawling backwards. 

Clint wiped blood from the side of his mouth. _They always have to gloat_ , Coulson's voice said. "You call that a punch, Hansen? I've had kisses that were rougher than that."

Hansen scowled. "I'm going to make you regret every smart comment you've ever made to me, Barton."

"You mean you're going to get a bunch of your little minions to hold me down? Need backup to deal with a guy who isn't even armed?"

Hansen opened his mouth to answer, and behind him, his deputy walked in. Thank god. Clint wasn't interested in spinning this out.

"Fischer!" Clint said. He beamed at Fischer, projecting innocent happiness. "Hey, man, haven't seen you for ages. Where you been? You're never around S.H.I.E.L.D. any more."

Clint could practically see the implications of his words sinking in, and the panic blooming in Fischer's eyes. That was what sold it. If he'd looked confused or bored, Hansen might have brushed it off, but he was just quick enough on the uptake to work out what was going on, and too slow to work out what was _really_ going on. 

"No!" Fischer protested instantly. "I've never— I wouldn't—"

"You double-crossing son of a bitch," Hansen swore.

"Hey, Marcus, no, he's lying—" The truth dawned too late. "He's making it up—"

"I always said I was stupid to trust you—"

Hansen stepped towards Fischer, who brought his gun up in self-defense. They stood, frozen with their weapons pointed at each other. 

"Hansen, I swear—"

" _I_ swear that I'm going to treat you like the dog you are—"

Clint crawled a little further away from the action. No need for them to remember he was there.

More insults were flying, and everyone else in the room had their attention fixed firmly on the power struggle suddenly taking place. Weapons were being subtly drawn, and men were moving to position themselves one on side or the other. Any minute now…

The fight started just as Clint slipped through the doors. He didn't bother turning to check, just ducked away from the melee and hunted in his pocked for the tiny spare comm that they hadn't checked him thoroughly enough to find. Instantly, Coulson's warm voice came through his ear.

"Remember when I said not to underestimate him? I take it all back. May's waiting for you on the roof, Hawkeye."

It wasn't hard to find a stairwell that took him out onto the roof. May was already waiting for him, looking kick-ass in her heels as usual. 

"Hope you took good care of my baby," Clint said in greeting.

"Like she was my very own," May assured him as she handed over the bow. Clint watched the way she lovingly set up the M110. Yeah, Melinda knew what she was doing.

The others must have been doing a pretty good job inside the building, because mostly it was only civilians who stumbled out, swearing and running for cover. Two armed men tried to haul a box outside and got pinned to the wall for their troubles, two arrows each in their sleeves. Clint breathed out, starting to enjoy himself.

"Heads up," Melinda said as a truck started to pull out of the south entrance. It rolled out into the compound and turned right, heading past Clint's position. Clint put two arrows in the rear tire, but nothing happened. Hell. He moved up to try to hit the engine, then noticed the heavy sway of the back end. It was loaded with weapons.

The driver was picking up speed, now, headed for the gate at the east edge. It was shut, but a heavy truck could ram right through the lock in a couple of seconds. Hitting the fuel tank was out unless Clint wanted to cause the mother of all explosions with god knew what kind of alien enhancements. He tried again to hit the engine, but it was too well reinforced for even armor-piercing arrows.

"Hawkeye," Melinda barked over the comms, "take out the driver."

Clint froze. It was one of the civilians driving, probably didn't even know exactly what was in the back. He'd just panicked and grabbed the nearest vehicle. Clint didn't shoot guys who were just doing the job they'd been hired to do, guys who didn't know what they were involved with. But if he got out of the compound with that truck there was no knowing what damage it could do, and if he didn't do anything then in a couple of seconds the truck was going to be out of range, and Melinda was yelling at him to take the shot and Bobbi was softly saying his name like she knew what he was thinking and Nat was calmly telling him to focus, and Clint knew what he had to do but his finger was frozen on the bowstring—

"Barton," Coulson's voice came over the comms, sure and steady. "See the lever on the top right of the gate? Hit it."

Clint was holding a putty arrow between his fingers before he'd even thought about it, aiming with deadly precision at the top of the lever. For a second the arrow stuck to the end, and then the weight was dragging down the lever, and a heavy grate slid out of the top of the gate and crashed down in front of it, sealing off the entrance and bringing the truck to a halt right in front of the gate. The man got out and fled for the other side of the compound and Clint watched him go with a sigh of relief, trying to bring down his racing heart.

"Nice shot, Hawkeye," Coulson said, and Clint could hear him smiling.

After that, it was all over but the shouting. Bad guys were locked up and crates were loaded onto trucks and extensive conversations were had with local law enforcement. An hour later, Clint was finally collapsing into the jet, wrung out with bruises and adrenaline. He buckled himself in with a sigh and sank back in the jumpseat as much as he could, thanking god for the existence of one Phillip J Coulson. 

Natasha buckled herself in next to Clint and handed him a bottle of water with a sympathetic expression. "Okay?"

"I'll get there."

"Good job," Bobbi said, nudging his leg on her way to the pilot's seat. "And zero civilian casualties, just as the maestro ordered."

The 'maestro' settled himself in the seat across from Clint. "Nice work, everyone."

Clint tipped his head back and half-shut his eyes, using the position to watch Coulson from under closed eyelids. He was calmly doing paperwork as though he hadn't just saved Clint's soul today. How could anyone, even Clint's soulmate, compare to the man who knew Clint through and through, who understood him and complemented him? What was the point of looking for a soulmate, when he'd already found the only one he wanted?

"Who put this stupid supernatural matchmaking service in charge, anyway?" Clint asked under his breath. 

Coulson startled, and looked up from his seat opposite. "What was that?"

"I was just wondering how the hell you knew that portcullis was even there?"

Coulson shrugged. "The old SSR bases were pretty much all built to the same model."

"And you've, what, memorized every inch of the blueprints?"

Coulson ducked his head, a faint blush tinting his cheeks. "I had a model as a kid. Captain America and Peggy Carter used to have epic battles defending it from Hydra. I know it pretty well."

Clint tried to contain the laughter, but it bubbled out of him anyway. 

It was so easy to imagine Phil as a kid, lying in his bedroom with his Captain America comics and his SHIELD action figures. How many other thousands and thousands of kids had done the same thing? But only one of them became a SHIELD agent. Phil decided on a thing, and then he did the thing. There was no middle step. He was always straight at his target. Like an arrow. 

An arrow. There was something important about that, but Clint was rapidly falling asleep in even in the jet's uncomfortable seats, and his exhausted brain struggled to put the pieces together. Phil was an arrow…

* * *

The thought was waiting for him when he woke up. An arrow. 

He blinked his eyes open to find they'd already landed, and May and Bobbi were hauling their gear down the ramp. Natasha kicked his ankle gently. "We're here."

"Where's Coulson?"

"Briefing the Director. Come on, get your ass up. You need a shower."

Clint showered, changed and sat through his post-mission checkup on automatic. His hand kept sliding to the tie pin holding his wrist guard in place, thumb rubbing over the smooth metal. He pulled back the cuff on his left wrist and looked once again at the achingly familiar symbol. His soulmate was an arrow. Phil was an arrow. 

It was stupid to hope based on such a tiny, tenuous connection. But if Clint had stopped to think about half the stupid, crazy stunts he'd pulled, he would never have pulled them. His instincts had kept him alive all this time, and he trusted them. Shoot first and get scared later – that was the Clint Barton way. 

As soon as he was released from Medical, Clint walked straight into the nearest Matching Center and signed on the dotted line. 

It was easier than he expected. It took an hour, most of it spent checking his Mark was really a Mark and not a tattoo or a brilliant fake, and then he filled out the paperwork and it was done. He spent an hour throwing sticks in the park for Lucky, watched some TV, took a nap. When he woke up his phone was blinking. 

_Congratulations!_ The message said. _You have been matched to your soulmate. Your meeting is scheduled for tonight at 7pm. Please reply to this email to confirm or reschedule._

Seven pm. That was good. The sooner the better. It would stop Clint from freaking out. Not that he wasn't already freaking out a little, as he shaved carefully in the steamy mirror and did up the buttons on his best shirt with unsteady fingers. His soulmate. He was about to meet his soulmate.

The address they sent him was for an Italian restaurant in Brooklyn. Clint was ushered into a private room, where his date was already waiting, sitting with his back to the door and swilling the beer in his bottle. He turned as the door opened. 

It was Phil. 

Clint felt weak with relief. He took a shaky step forward and flung himself into Phil's arms. As always, Phil caught him. He wrapped strong arms around Clint and cradled him, pressed their cheeks together, murmured reassuring nonsense in his ear.

Eventually, Clint managed to pull himself away. "Hi. Um. I can't believe it's you. I'm really, _really_ glad it's you."

"Not half as glad as I am." Phil released him with obvious reluctance, and went back to sit on his side of the table. "I couldn't believe it when the message came in today. I was hoping—but until I saw you I didn't know—" He broke off, and looked at the table. "Uh, was Italian a good choice? We never did get that pizza, so I figured…"

"Perfect choice," Clint reassured him. "Who doesn't like pizza?"

"Monsters," Phil agreed. "I'm guessing you want pineapple on your half?"

Dinner was weirdly normal. They talked about Lola and Clint's bike and Clint's futile attempt to find another 1970 Dodge Challenger, about the new quinjet model and Phil's desire to learn how to fly and the impossibility of finding space in his schedule. By the time they'd finished a couple of beers each and most of the pizza, Clint had calmed down to something approaching his usual level.

"Not that I'm complaining," Phil said with a reassuring smile, "but how come you never signed up before?"

Clint shrugged. "Before, we were on the wrong side of the law. And then after I met you, I didn't want anyone else."

The broad smile he got in return warmed Clint down to his toes.

"So what made you change your mind?"

Clint dipped his crust in garlic sauce. "I don't really know?" He ate the last of his pizza, trying to work out how to explain. Phil sat quietly, radiating patient sympathy. "I don't like killing people."

If this was a weird non-sequitur, Phil didn't react. "It's never easy."

"No. Even when you got no choice, it—it follows you around, you know?"

Phil nodded.

"Nat and I never took hit jobs, and if someone had to be killed, a lot of times she'd take care of it."

"She loves you very much," Phil said.

"I love her too. But by the time we joined S.H.I.E.L.D.…I was just so sick of being the tough guy. Learn to hit back so your dad stops beating you. Learn to steal so the Swordsman keeps you around. Do Trick Shot's dirty work for him so you won't have to do everyone else's, and then when he leaves you for dead you better do everyone else's because it's the only way you're gonna eat—"

"Clint—"

"Even S.H.I.E.L.D. aren't exactly angels. And then I met you, and you hate the phrase 'collateral damage', and you think there's no such thing as acceptable losses. Yesterday, when we saved that guy's life? That was what I signed up to S.H.I.E.L.D. to do. It was what I always wanted to do."

Phil reached across the table and tangled his fingers with Clint's. "Me too."

"I know." Clint's smile was maybe a little bit watery. "Guess I should've known all along. Just never really though I could deserve you."

" _Clint_. I cannot tell you how badly I want to kiss you right now."

God, yes. Clint couldn't count the number of fantasies that had started with taking Phil home and kissing him on his couch. He wanted to kiss Phil for hours; forever if possible.

"Wanna get out of here?" he said.

"Definitely."

Lola was sitting on the curb when they left the restaurant, like a knight's faithful steed. Clint couldn't resist petting her gleaming sides, just a little. 

Phil smiled at him indulgently. "Let me give you a ride home."

Clint hoped very much that he was going to get more of a ride than that, but he got into the car without leering _too_ much.

The sun was setting between the buildings across the street, adding warm touches to Lola's natural gleam and haloing Phil in golden light. Clint sat back and drank in the clean lines of his profile, the shadowed hollow at the base of his throat, and the small, satisfied smile curling his lips.

"Always said I was the luckiest guy alive," Clint said quietly.

Phil looked over at him, eyes alight with love and tenderness, and reached out to squeeze Clint's hand. He picked Clint's hand up, turned it over and, without breaking eye contact, pressed a kiss to where the cuff covered the inside of Clint's wrist.

Clint shuddered. That was going to feel _so good_ on his bare skin.

"What do you think the other half of the symbol means?" Clint asked as Phil pulled out into the light evening traffic, Lola purring contentedly beneath them. "If you're an arrow, what's my half?"

"That's easy." Phil was smiling at him, soft and sweet, his warm fingers sneaking back across Clint's lap to take hold of his hand. "I always knew it. You're a scalpel."


End file.
